


Acquaintance

by sunflowerwonder



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Adventurer!Jake, Flirting, Implied/Referenced Period Homophobia, M/M, Morning After, One Night Stand, Regency, Relationships Forged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 23:35:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9465596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerwonder/pseuds/sunflowerwonder
Summary: Dirk wakes up in a strange, attractive London townhouse with an equally strange, attractive owner.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A regency AU originally requested by [callmearcturus](http://callmearcturus.tumblr.com/) on my [Tumblr](http://dirkar.tumblr.com/post/151459637361/regency-au-dirkjake-shrugs). Partially written as a thank you for that fabulous sequel to my A House Built fanfic.

You awake to a ceiling of dark wood, crosshatched rafters signaling your placement at an upmost flat somewhere residential. Your memories are a bit of a wash. Vague spots of warmth coat your skin but for the most part your evening is a flash of overpriced molly house alcohol and… well, you remember _someone_ with a hand around your waist.

You sit up in bed. It’s late autumn outside, and the bedroom rests a bit chilly without a fireplace going. You’re unquestionably naked, your blond hair falling mussed into your eyeline, and a brief look around the room shows no trace of your (presumably) hastily discarded clothing.

Your garments are just about the only thing not present in the room, however. For an exorbitant amount of items are loaded upon the paneled walls. You stare wide eyed at a haphazard collection of hunting trophies—antlers and bear heads resting beside their taxidermy siblings of giant beetles and shimmering butterflies—weapons—guns that seem too big to carry resting on pegs and great, ancient looking axes and bows and broadswords and a fucking full suit of armor—and portraiture—so many portraits—paintings from locket to window size portraying dozens of beauties in varying ethnicities, all clad in a uniform shade of cerulean blue. It’s an overwhelming mess and the only reason you can bring yourself to pry your eyes away from such a fascinating disaster is the sudden opening of the bedroom door.

A maid enters and in a rush of instinct you grab the sheets to cover yourself. You’ve painted yourself a boyish woman before and you’re quite familiar in the art of saving face. You give her a smile and coyly pull the sheets a little farther up the chest you don’t have.

“Oh shush,” the maid says. She’s got a stack of pressed clothing in her arms. Your clothing, you quickly realize. Your grin falters.

“Don’t look so abject, sir,” she says. Her voice carries a humorous edge, like she’s a second from chuckling under her breath. “You’re not the first I’ve seen in these sheets and I’d bet my livelihood you won’t be the last.”

“You bet your servitude on keeping secrets often, then,” you prod, apprehensive.

“A maid’s business is not her master’s,” she replies with a smile. She sets down your clothing on the foot of the bed. “Now then, I’ve pressed your clothes, and I’m just about finished with breakfast. You can join Mr. English in the study if you’d like.”

“…Thank you,” you say.

“I’m Jane, if you need to call upon me,” she smiles. “Good morning.”

It’s the kindest welcome you’ve ever gotten from an acquaintance of a risky bedpartner, and you quietly thank all the lucky stars Rose had so dryly informed you would never be in your favor for this moment.

Jane departs in a muted rustle of heavy skirts and the second the door clicks shut you spring out of bed to throw on your garments. Your body is sticky with sweat but you will be homebound soon enough. You could greatly use a bath and some familiar surroundings.

You hurry from the looming stare of a stuffed bear head. Outside the bedroom is as lavish as the inside, if less dense. Three more suits of armor line a hallway paneled with the same dark wood as the room prior. The rug beneath your shoes (polished, you scoff, reflecting on the sheer kindness of such a nonjudgmental maid) is a plush emerald and too intricate to be anything but exotic.

The hallway ends in the entrance to a tight, spiraling staircase with a brass banister and you realize that you are not, in fact, in the top flat of a well-to-do housing complex, but rather a large multilevel London home all to itself. It’s a troubling development. You descend the stairs quickly, suddenly wary of becoming upper-class gossip. No wonder the maid was so unprecedented in her understanding. Getting on the wrong side of her master could mean getting on the wrong side of regal blood.

(You imagined yourself a drunken treat hunted by some deprived nobleman upon return to the city from his country estate, your expression easy and intoxicated in a bar of questionable reputation, and feel your stomach twist. )

The staircase deposits you on the floor beneath the bedroom and goes no further. It’s a library of some sort with a couch and two chairs nestled in the center around a fireplace. The walls are lined with shelves of great, fading tomes and you’d take yourself to exploring the subjects if you weren’t so eager to depart.

Thankfully, you see the banister of a more standard staircase across the room, and pray it may take you to a coveted exit. You move to stride across to it, quiet and with lightning quickness that’s startled your older brother on several occasions, and almost make it to your descent before there’s a clatter to your left.

“Oh cringlebludgers,” a distinctly masculine and distinctly not-Jane voice says. You lock eyes with a rather unassuming man in spectacles. He stands amidst a pile of dropped books and a few rolls of parchment, one of which skids across the floor to collide with your foot. You hesitate for a moment, before reaching to pick it up.

“You startled me!” he starts, leaning down to collect his own fallen wares. “I mean, I’d hardly consider myself composed in light of my own butterfingers but by the gracious Queen, chum—” He hoists the books back up into his arms. The rolled parchments (that, upon closer inspection, carry the distinct composition of naval maps) balance precariously on top of the stacks. “My dearest friend, you’ve got quite the silent step of an African cat! Or maybe it’s the speed of a careening gazelle. It hardly matters in terms of animal metaphors though the true hard facts are that I’m an absolute, terrible clutz—” You move to place the scroll that had been at your feet on top of the collection in his arms. He grins. “Thank you, dear. You’re quite the gentleman! You never can tell who you’re going to wake up with in the evening’s afterwards.”

You nod, once, and glance back towards the staircase. He sets down his books on the couch’s sidetable with a heavy thunk and huff of air. Your shoulders stiffen.

“Aren’t you a quiet one,” he says, dusting off his hands. “I struggle to recognize you compared to the crowing fellow from last night.”

He gives a loud chuckle at his own little joke and winks at you. You feel a blush rise to your cheeks.

“I am…” you say. Your words feel slow, molten, in your mouth. “Bold, when intoxicated.”

He laughs louder at this, and moves nearer to clap you on the shoulder. “Aren’t we all!” he calls, and from up close you can see bright green eyes highlighted by gold (gold!) rimmed glasses. He doesn’t curl his lip like a noble but he’s certainly no peasant.

His arms find yours and in a flurry of motion he’s escorting you to the couch, where a tea set has been laid out haphazardly on the low table. A few half-eaten scones lie scattered on saucers around nearly a dozen open books and an ink set.

“Sorry for the mess, lad. I’m afraid you’ve caught me in a bit of a whirlwind,” he confesses.

“I hardly mind,” you say, simply. You accept the tea he pours you but are too focused on controlling your actions to sip at it.

“I’m in the process of setting a course to Asia. It’s quite the affair, really. Days at sea followed by a lengthy weekend on an elephant just to make it decently inland!” he continues. You nod, politely, but he seems to notice your stiffness.

“Are you quite alright?” he asks.

“Quite,” you reply.

“You’re not ill? You seem strained.”

“I’m fine,” you say. “Just…”

“Just?”

“I should depart,” you say. Quickly. It falls out of your mouth in an honest rush. His face falls.

“Have I upset you?” he asks. “I was quite drunk myself but I was under the impression I am nothing to scoff about in bed—”

“No,” you say. “Fuck no.” Maybe the swearing is a bit coarse. “It’s all a bit blurred but you were—It was fine, I was happy. I just—Really, surely you’re not dense enough to fail to realize you’ve offered night love and morning tea to a man.”

He stares at you. Eyebrow’s scrunched. “I’m aware,” he says.

“I wouldn’t think someone as well off as yourself would,” you stall. “Keep my company.”

“I kept it just fine last night didn’t I?” he says. “I’m certainly not going to toss you to the streets. You were lovely to lie with.”

Your flush deepens. “You’re strange,” you say. “Damned strange.”

“Likewise,” he chimes. “But I have a fondness for curios.”

You don’t doubt it, but something about the way he places a hand on your knee makes you feel like more than a trophy on his bedroom wall.

“My name is Jake,” he says. “Jake English, explorer extraordinaire.”

“Dirk,” you reply. “Strider.”

“Mr. Strider,” he smiles. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”


End file.
